


Warlock of the Water Lizard

by Nemesis_Zero (Ravager_Zero), Ravager_Zero



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2020-12-24 03:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21092543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravager_Zero/pseuds/Nemesis_Zero, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravager_Zero/pseuds/Ravager_Zero
Summary: The adventures of my D&D Warlock.





	1. Hawke's Canal — The Disappearing

**Author's Note:**

> This was my very first session of D&D. 
> 
> And I want to track the story of our little party, just to see how it goes.

Hawke’s Canal is a hole. It’s a dirty little frontier town, and the only reason I’m stuck here is that the university has a book on the water lizard in the restricted section. Also, unlike my larcenously minded siblings, I was never great at the whole stealth thing. Also, it’s not a book about water lizards, or ‘a’ water lizard. It’s about _the_ water lizard. My patron. Indolent though he might be, his wrath and power are terrible to behold. Powers I want for myself.  
  
And the knowledge. The water lizard knows of the world before—before the creation myths of all the races. He was _there_, somehow, before the other deities emerged. I mean, as a Gnome, it’s kind of a stereotype, but I want all the knowledge. No, I don’t really know what I would _do_ with it. Sit on it, probably. Anyway, on my quest for said knowledge, I’ve gotten mired down in Hawke’s Canal.  
  
It’s a big river, but I didn’t bother learning what the locals called it. Some variation on ‘wet’, or ‘long’ I presume. It’s maybe half a league from bank to bank, and the main port, for some reason, is on a large island in the middle of the river. I’ve been staying near the east gate, just outside the university. I’m helping them with various translations, hoping to eventually build up enough trust, or credit, or whatever it is people need to get access to the restricted section.  
  
Walking the town after breakfast, I can hear the criers all shouting about something—and well, anything is better than another day of rote transcription at this point. They’ve got broadsheets with information and some crude pictures on them, and a handful of maps. The rewards on the broadsheet are interesting, mostly because they’re not listed in numbers, but rather as “the favour of the council”. Well, with that I could easily get access to the books I want.  
  
Then someone elbows me in the face. Tall guy. No, not human. Elf. The ears are a dead giveaway.  
  
“Watch your arms, pointy-ear.”  
  
He just frowns at me. “Great, I get to work with a midget.”  
  
“What?!”  
  
“Who you callin’s a midget?”  
  
That wasn’t me. Behind me, crowd parting around him, there’s a halfling—well, I think he’s a halfling, but he’s huge for one of them. The axe he’s carrying is even bigger. Looks well used too. I’m kind of hoping he’ll use it on the elf.  
  
“Just behave, Milo,” another Elf, further away. “I’m sure he meant you no disrespect.”  
  
The halfling—Milo—plants his axe upside down and stands carefully on it, almost face-to-face with the first elf. “He can tell me to mah face then, can’t ‘e?”  
  
I step back. This could be interesting.  
  
“I was talking to her—“ he’s pointing at me. “—because I thought we had to work together.”  
  
“We do, elf-boy, so watch yer tone around the shorter people.”  
  
“Milo, enough, please.” The other elf, taller and thinner the first one, and clearly female, interposed herself between him and Milo. “My name is Thea, I’m a cleric, and I was hoping the people I helped today would not be ones injured by my own companions.”  
  
“Athel, ranger,” the first Elf gave slight, almost mocking bow.  
  
Milo frowned at him, but stepped down and slung his axe again. “I’m Milo, as ye might have guessed. She calls me a barbarian sometimes fer me manners.”  
  
I figured it was probably time to introduce myself then. “Inyri—or ‘Innie’ if you can’t speak proper Gnomish—Warlock of the water lizard.”  
  
“Okay, two midgets then,” Athel was unrepentant. “I guess together you two can make up our third for the search.”  
  
I was so tempted to just flick my fingers and cast _that_ cantrip. Not kill him, but enough to knock him on his overly ego filled ass. It would be too obvious, and too easy. Instead, I took the map he’d been browsing, turned it right side up, and realised I already knew the way—as long as we didn’t want to take the road. It was only about eight leagues through the forest, instead of twenty following the road.  
  
“Innie?” It was the cleric, Thea, trying to whisper in my ear. “Are the roads really that bad?”  
  
“Just slow,” I was reading more of the broadsheet. “If these people have been attacked, and are hurt, don’t we want to get there faster?”  
  


* * *

  
Travelling through the forest around Hawke’s Canal was relatively uneventful, which was to say aside from a few minor trips and scrapes, nothing really interesting was happening. So I thought to try out my people skills—still rusty from decades in the temple service, and dedicated to forgotten gods.  
  
“Milo, you’re big for a halfling,” he just smiled at me. “You also skipped at least two meals today.”  
  
“Aye,” he ducked under a particularly low branch. “I’m used to bein’ on the road. So’s most of my clan. Performers, and I keep the rabble out when needs be.”  
  
“Oh, I thought maybe you’d been a soldier for a time.”  
  
“Thought about it, but you just don’t get the freedom.” He stopped, waiting for something.  
  
I heard it too, a strange rustling of the leaves around us. There was a crack, and Athel ducked, a tree branch flying out of the undergrowth towards him. His bow was already in his hands, his arrow loosed as he rolled back. The arrow stuck fast in a distant tree, and I heard a rumbling screech from the same direction. Something in the forest was attacking us.  
  
My mind raced, putting together the spell as my lips moved around the darkened words of my shadowspeech—guttural rumblings meant to cripple the mind of whatever might be attacking us. I could see something in the distance, almost as if an actual _tree_ was trying to run away from me. It was a tree. I could see it as I assaulted what little mind it had. Someone had gone to the effort of Awakening it.  
  
From my right I heard a furious warcry as Milo charged in, skidding to a halt and turning as the tree tried to land its massive bulk on top of Ath. But even as the tree fell, Ath was swinging up through its branches, somersaulting back from its crown as the forest floor shuddered under its impact. And while it was down, Milo landed a massive overhand strike with his axe, hewing furiously into the roots of the tree again and again.  
  
I couldn’t see Thea, but I could hear fast, shallow breathing coming from behind another tree. I moved a little, trying to find Thea as Ath nocked another arrow, this one seeming to bounce off a small branch before falling to the ground. A glance the other way and I saw Thea, half hiding behind another tree. Well, as long as we weren’t about to be outflanked.  
  
I whispered more shadowspeech, reaching out with my right hand. I could almost feel the sap flowing through the branches. My hand closed into a fist as I made a violent downwards movement. Branches splintered and fell, rotting from within. Leaves withered to ash as they fell. The awakened tree shrieked its hatred of me as Milo continued to hack into its roots.  
  
It fell.  
  
On top of Milo.  
  
As it rose, I could see Milo on a higher branch, hanging on to his axe and swearing. “Yer not ending me that easy you overgrown bloody pot-plant!”  
  
I felt a touch on my shoulder, and warmth and certainty seemed to flow through me. I turned to see Thea whispering to the air.  
  
“Let her wisdom guide you.”  
  
I fumbled with my pouch for a moment, as Ath fired yet another ineffectual arrow at the tree. _It’s a_ tree. _Arrows aren’t going to hurt it_. But he was a Ranger, and everything looks like a bullseye to them. As he flipped backwards to avoid another sweeping branch my fingers closed on the ingredient I needed.  
  
A chip of mica.  
  
I threw the chip in the air, clapping my hands to meet it on the way down.  
  
No sound came from my hands.  
  
Thunder boomed above the awakened tree, so loud I blinked, and so powerful it knocked Milo off his branch. The force was so intense it split the tree asunder, showering Ath and Milo in leaves and twigs, and leaving the forest in a ringing silence as our ears recovered. We all took a moment to gather our wits, peering into the remains of the now very dead tree.  
  
There was a crystal ball in there. The glass was far too thick to be useful for scrying, and the clouds inside looked vaguely familiar. The surface was a little rough—but given how it had been wedged in the tree, I didn’t pay it much mind. It didn’t react when I reached out to touch it either, so it probably wasn’t some elaborate trap. Wasn’t that heavy either; maybe a pound at most.  
  
I knew what it was. Years ago I’d read about these. _Driftglobes_. Useful to explorers, researches, and even some soldierly applications. But there were command words. I bounced the orb from hand to hand as we walked, trying to figure out how to make it work—any clue as to what the command words might be. I kept feeling the scratches. I turned the orb so the scratches were facing me. Then again, because they were upside-down.  
  
Draconic. Somebody had written something on this driftglobe in Draconic. Possibly with their own claws.  
  
“I need some time for a ritual.” Everyone was looking at me. “I can probably make this work, and it’s getting late anyway, right?”  
  
They nodded, Milo somewhat reluctantly.  
  
“I’ll take second watch so everyone else can get a decent rest, how’s that?”  
  
“Can I watch?” Thea seemed strangely interested in my ritual tome.  
  
“From over there,” I pointed to a tree far enough she wouldn’t be able to see too much. “I need this space around here undisturbed while I work.”  
  
A circle, double-lined, inscribed with hermetic glyphs between them. Two more circles, linked with a broken line, and the star of the heavens. The signs of the world. All of it copied in painstaking detail from another tome many decades ago. And all of it a lie—but I couldn’t let them know how the boon of the water lizard truly worked.  
  
I held the driftglobe up again.  
  
_By The Dawn_.  
  
It might have been helpful if I could have spoken Draconic as well.  
  
I spoke using Deep Speech—because I was fairly sure the others wouldn’t understand me. “By the dawn.”  
  
I dropped the driftglobe, the light was so damn bright. Blinking, shielding my eyes, I jumped up a little to rest it in a crook of branches in the nearest tree. Turning back around, it was like noon behind me, but in the distance I could see the darkening sky of the evening. The campfire was roaring nicely, but I wondered if we would need it, with how bright the driftglobe was right now.  
  
Turns out, we did need it. The driftglobe was light for about an hour, long enough for the sun to set, and then it started fading fast. So I knew it would be useful in a pinch. Something was nagging at me, though. Some way to channel the magic differently—less light, but lasting much longer.  
  
Second watch was boring. In fact, the most interesting thing to happen all night was Ath finding rabbits in his bedroll.  
  
The next day we set out for the farmstead, Ath having finally found a sense of direction—and hinting that maybe I’d just got lucky with my pathfinding yesterday. I let him keep thinking that, mostly because I was still trying to figure out more about our new driftglobe. When stumbled upon the farmstead it was little more than a clearing cut into the forest. A few buildings, a barn, a homestead, water tower, and what might have been a forge. The lack of smoke from the forge meant it hadn’t been lit for some time—but the barn was closer, so I edged up to that first.  
  
There was a body in there. Small. Greyish skin. Sharp teeth. I couldn’t quite place it.  
  
Thea could: “What’s a Goblin doing out here?”  
  
Ath, next to her, responded with something lewd. It was too much—and I was right next to him. I slapped him hard enough make him flinch. He just stared at me. Thea was glaring, but not at me. Perhaps she’d wanted to do the same thing. I decided to make myself useful—well, more useful than beating some manners into that prick—and moved over to the water tower.  
  
The cart tracks were hard to miss. Deep, muddy ruts that I nearly slipped in, trying to get to the ladder. There was still a fair amount of water in the tower. I looked down at the tracks again. _The cart had been loaded_. That much was certain. Milo called out that the storehouse was empty. The forge was next. There were no signs of violence, or even neglect. The fire had just been let to burn down. The only thing remarkable was the layer of dust, and that a few tools had been left behind—on their racks, and tidy.  
  
Something told me that this simply couldn’t be malicious. _Where are the bodies?_ The supplies, the water, the tools. All gone. Nothing seemed wrong with this clearing, or the farmstead in general. The people were just gone, and it seemed like they’d taken everything with them. But the councillors from Hawke’s Canal wanted us out here, investigating. If they’d just upped stakes and left, why would they send us?  
  
It didn’t make sense.  
  
But I didn’t know people. I knew magic, and ancient cultures, and how to keep secrets.  
  
I also knew I was going to have to ask that damned Elf for help.


	2. The Disappearings — the Farmstead & the Mine

It turns out I was wrong about those people just upping stakes. The scream—and the thud of someone falling over—tell me that something bad has happened. It’s Thea, fainted in front of the main building of this farmstead. I have some smelling salts in my pack. Well, humans and elves might call them that. I think of it as the right kind of spice for game and fowl. It brings Thea round almost instantly.

Ath is quiet, motioning slowly with one hand that I should look in the window. I figure that we should probably be quiet too. Inside, after finding something to clamber on, I can see blood. A whole lot of blood. Body parts hacked and strewn about. It’s like a charnel house. I’m guessing our cleric—Thea—hasn’t seen the like before. I have. Not as many bodies, but when you spend long enough in the dark places of the world, sometimes you wind up seeing things you wish you could un-see. I look back, and Ath is counting on his fingers. Even_ I’m_ not going to assume he’s _that_ stupid.

Five bodies. The number might be important, but the way all the limbs have been thrown about, it’s very unlikely. The stench is a dead giveaway when we open the door, Ath leading. He’s looking for something. A sign, maybe. I already have one. Someone, or rather, some_thing_ has been chewing on the assorted limbs and appendages in this place. Ath calls to us, a whisper that carries strangely well, pointing to tracks leading off into the forest, just west of the homestead itself.

I can’t find anything obviously out of place—but what do I really know of human houses? Ath is more perceptive, finding a loose panel in the wall. It’s loose, but not even enough for his dagger to slip into the gap. _Maybe there’s a mechanism to open it?_ A quick search leaves me empty-handed on that one too. A bit more effort and Ath seems to have pried the panel loose—without breaking it.

“A safe?” Thea looks at both of us, then at the safe. She gestures around the room, with an expression I can’t fully read. “All of this, just for a safe?”

“And everything else they took,” Ath reminds her. “The forge tools, the food, the water.”

I frown at the lock on the safe. It seems simple enough. “Anyone know how to pick a lock?”

They both shake their heads. “I’ll try mine.”

I’m fairly sure they were not expecting my ‘lockpick’ to bend the hinges and turn the lock into a smoking, smouldering mess on the far side of the room. I just give them a look.

“It’s open, isn’t it?”

Inside the safe there’s a bunch of jewellery, which I think we might sell—because these people won’t be needing it anymore. It’s nothing fantastic, just some simple gold bracelets, and a small locket. There’s a clasp on the locket, and a picture inside. Maybe we’ll try finding the owner of that one, or their kin. Behind the jewellery are a pair of bone statuettes. I’m not sure what god or goddess they’re meant to be depicting, but they are finely carved and structured, and look quite valuable. I also doubt that’s what the goblins were after, given what I know of goblin religion.

After removing the statuettes there are some actual, useful supplies. Potions of healing, and something else—neither of us can figure out what the third potion is. Tucked into the very back of the safe is a scroll. It’s runic, but it’s simple arcana. _Thunderwave_. Useful in a pinch, but I don’t think it would have saved these homesteaders. Only then does Thea ask where Milo is. And only then does it occur to me that we haven’t seen him since we entered the farmstead.

We can all hear the chant. It’s guttural, harsh. We can also hear a halfling swearing about goblins and greenskins in general. Ath is out the door first, and past him I can see the goblins in a ring, chanting as one of them faces off with Milo. The goblin fighting him dances away from a heavy swing of his axe, and then points at us. One of them is already nocking an arrow as I jump out the door, landing heavily. The arrow sticks into Ath’s shoulder, but he doesn’t seem to notice. A second arrow glances from my leather hauberk.

I can just Milo grappling behind the goblins rushing me and Ath. It’s one less goblin, because Milo just snapped its neck like a twig. Ath fires an arrow from beside me as I begin to chant an abjuration against harm, drawing water from my waterskin to complete the spell. It looks like I’m covered in frost, but I doubt the goblins will know the significance of that. One of them rushes me, his blade hewing into the frost, displacing most of it.

But the sudden look of horror in his eyes as Agathys takes vengeance is deeply satisfying. Frozen solid in the space of a heartbeat. In the distance I hear the thwack of a heavy blade carving flesh and bone. A goblin staggers away from Milo, torn in half, guts spilling across its legs and tripping it as Milo hews into a another goblin, taking her arm clean off, and her short sword with it.

Beside me, Ath is still nocking and firing at the goblins rushing us, but he can’t seem to find his mark. I reach into my pouch for a chip of stone, throwing it into the air. I target the second goblin in the line, keeping her in my mind’s eye as the stone chip falls between my closing hands. A sound like thunder booms from inside the charging goblin. There’s nothing left of her but a spray of blood and a tangle of scything bones.

Two more of the goblins fall; one collapsing like bag of jelly, every bone his body shattered beyond repair. There are four of them left now, all staggering, clutching at their ears, or ribs. Only one of them is still holding a weapon. I shout at them, using a touch of thaumaturgy to give my voice some thunder of its own.

“Run, or I’ll do that again!”

Three of them start backing off, but the one still holding a sword keeps advancing. Ath finally finds his mark, his arrow scything through that goblin before burying itself up to its fletching in the skull of one of the retreating goblins. In fact, they’re all retreating now. The stench of burnt meat wafts over to us, and nearby I can feel the weave being channeled into something full of fire.

Bolts of shimmering fire, trailing sparks across the ground slam into the goblins still fighting Milo. He hacks one of the burning goblins in half as my evocation slams into the other, disarming him. I can feel something even bigger being taken from the weave, and in the distance I can see someone that could only be a wizard. Milo is already running from the remaining goblins, having seen what this pyromaniac is planning.

Ath stops short, letting the arrow hang loose between his fingers. I have to stop as well, the heat from the blast is so intense. I blink away the fiery blast, and all that’s left is a circle of scorched grass and charred bones. They carried some coin—a little worse for wear now—but we take it anyway. Behind me I can hear Thea chanting in elvish, her magic flowing seamlessly through the weave as she knits flesh and heals the bruises and scrapes Ath and Milo suffered in the fight.

“Two of them ran,” Ath points to a set of footprints leading south, into the forest proper. “We should be following them.”

Thea shook her head. “No. Someone needs to tell the town what happened here.”

“You’ll need protection.” Milo hefts his axe, having just finished cleaning it.

Ath’s looking at me. “I think he’s right”—I still hate agreeing with him—“those goblins came from somewhere, and this isn’t the only farmstead that needs protecting. If we can find their camp, we’re protecting all of the farmsteads around here.”

“Assuming that they only hit this farmstead,” Thea’s giving me a pointed look. At least, I think it’s pointed. “The council sent us out to investigate a lot of disappearances, remember?”

“I do, Thea,” I’m still just sitting in the grass, part of our little circle of adventurers. “But we have to stop these goblins now, before this can happen again. And we have to figure out what’s driving them above ground anyway.”

“Milo and I are returning to Hawke’s Canal, to fulfil our duty to these people.”

“Take this, then,” I toss the locket to her. “It was important to someone. Find their kin, if you can.”

“I’ll try, Inyri.”

With that, they left. It was only me and Ath, and our new wizard friend, who hadn’t yet bothered with an introduction. It was a big assumption—that he was a wizard—he could easily have been a sorceror, or another warlock. There was just an air about him, not the cockiness of a sorceror, nor the secretiveness of a warlock. He seemed studious, and oddly quiet for an elf in the company of his own kind.

“Hey.” I wave at him, trying to catch his attention.

He looks at me like he’s been watching me this whole time. “Yes, little one?” It doesn’t sound like an insult, which is very strange to me.

“Do you have a name, or should I just call you wizard?”

“Mel.” His voice is strangely distant. 

“Just Mel?” I frown at him. Elven names were supposed to be longer.

Mel nods, looking to the south, towards the forest. “We’ll be following those goblins, right?”

“Starting now.” Ath gets up, slinging his bow over his shoulder.

The trail is so obvious I’m sure a child could follow it. Goblin footprints everywhere, broken branches, and most telling of all, smears of blood. We’re all alert moving through the forest. One Awakened tree tried to stop us, but I really do wonder if it’s connected to these goblin raiders. It’s just not like them to use magic like that. Or to even know that kind of magic.

As we follow the trail left by the injured goblins, I take the driftglobe out of my pack and hand it to Mel, asking him if he can puzzle it out while we travel. While Mel ponders that, Ath has moved further ahead, and I drop back to cover the rear, just in case. I can also hear Mel mumbling in Draconic. He’s not speaking it, just trying out words, from what little I know of it. Another word seems to make sparks flash within the globe. A slightly different pronunciation.

Light. Not blinding, more like a bright torch than the noonday sun. I get the feeling it’s not going to fade anyway near as quickly either. He’s still playing with it, tossing it from one hand to another, trying several words but to no avail. He speaks again, in Draconic, and the glow fades to nothing.

“It’s ‘Light’.”

And the thing sparks to life again.

“And it understands Common,” he looked at the driftglobe, handing it back to me, still glowing. “Shade.”

The glow fades. I guess it’s a good start. Well, better than good. It would be easier if someone didn’t have to carry it around, but we can manage for now. The forest, it turns out, is a perfectly normal forest. No more Awakened trees. Or goblins, for that matter. I still think it would be nicer with a river running nearby. We get cart tracks instead. _Wait…_

The tracks are deep, and relatively fresh. I can’t be sure, but they might be from the same cart stolen from the farmstead. They also travel in the same direction as the much more recent goblin footprints. There’s a low rise up ahead—not enough to be a hill, but too big for a barrow. We can tell the trees are growing too close together, branches too low.

Because they’ve been cut down to hide something beyond. It’s a rudimentary, but effective attempt at camouflage. There’s nothing marked on my map, so it’s possible this structure is new. There is also the possibility that it is instead very, very old, and that human explorers hadn’t noticed it. Behind the branches there are large, surprisingly heavy oak doors. The hinges don’t creak, and the doors move far too easily for the age they imply.

There’s little inside, but it seems like a mine, with piles of spoil carefully lined up in the first chamber, and a small cave-in directly in front of us. To the left is a ramshackle collection of parts that might be a gate. To the right, and far more interesting, is another heavy, oak door. Once again intact. There could also be traps—and sometimes the best way to trigger those is with something that isn’t there at all.

Unseen Servant is a simple spell. Even as a ritual, it takes little concentration, only time. I ask the others to be on guard as I begin moulding the weave, taking threads from here and there, binding them with a simple will—an anima supplied from my tome. It might not keep its form against a more dangerous trap, but against something simple it might not even be hit. The servant is also most useful for certain religious rites ordained by the Water Lizard, which, I believe, is why the knowledge of this spell was placed in my tome.

The first thing I direct my servant to do is open the door to our right. Mel has somehow vanished into the shadows. Ath is off to one side, bow ready. Six wolves bound out from behind the door, sniffing at the air, turning to face us. Behind them, two much larger wolves stalk out. Direwolves. I can sense purposeful thought behind their eyes. I can read those thoughts—another boon of the Water Lizard.

_Kill. Eat. Not Master._

Their minds are simple. Perhaps simple enough to fool with a bribe of food. I take some meat from my pack, and motion for Ath to do the same. The pack stalks forward, wary, ears pricked, tails straight. They take the food, scoffing it before the direwolves growl at them. They face us again, lips curled, snarling and snapping. A bolt of flame leaps from the shadows and hits the nearest direwolf, setting it ablaze.

But that’s no help against the six wolves facing me and Ath. Already I have my fingers in my component pouch, finding a chip of stone. My lips are moving, chanting as I throw the stone skyward. My hands slam together, and the ground beneath the wolves explodes, the noise almost deafening this close. My vision is suddenly filled by a burning dire wolf, and as it rushes, I just have time to snap my fingers, the blast slamming into its side, throwing off its leap. It lands next to me, shaking embers from its fur.

I can hear jaws snapping beside me, and I can just make out the sound of someone stumbling back. Then Ath is beside me, his sword carving a line down the side of the direwolf attacking Mel, diverting its attention. I step back and away, already seeing what Mel is doing, kindling a jet of flame between both hands. Sparks and flames shoot out past me and Ath, cinders drifting oddly as both direwolves stagger and collapse, fur falling off in matted hanks, the stench of burnt meat filling the air.

Even as I try to clear my nostrils and wave the smoke away, the remaining wolves rush at us, two of them knocking Ath over, biting down on his arm and leg. I should have been paying more attention. The back of my head hurts, and the wolves are dragging me back towards their den. Everything hurts. All of us are so close together—I just have to hope the others have the constitution for this, or else I’ll be trying my medical skills as well.

Particular spells aren’t meant to be cast one handed. They can be less accurate, or less stable. The weave can respond oddly. Sorcerors can sculpt spells with just their minds to avoid these problems. But I’m not a sorceror. I’m a warlock, on the trail of the Water Lizard. And as I flick my fingers onto a chip of stone in my palm, I feel like I’ve been punched by an angry god. I know I heard Ath cry out before hitting something. Mel, I don’t know.

The wolves—there’s not much left of them. They were on top of me, and it was the fastest way to clear them out. Bones, teeth, bits of fur, an ear. Enough force to rip at least two of them apart. The others are halfway up the piles of spoil, not moving, not breathing. _Breathing. I should be doing that._ It hurts to breathe. I don’t think I broke anything, but by the gods does it hurt.

I sit on the floor of the mine and rummage through my pack for a health potion. Because I can’t help anyone if I’m about to keel over. Dust and bits of rubble tumble down nearby, and Ath staggers over, glaring at me, taking a phial from his belt. He quaffs it in silence, still staring at me. Mel’s standing, staring at the wall, looking a bit cross-eyed. He turns when Ath starts stretching, then reaches into his robes for a potion. He, too, is frowning at me.

“You’re expecting an apology?” I give them both a searching look. “You’ll be waiting.”

“At least the other midget wasn’t trying to kill us.” Ath’s looking straight at me.

“Like your bow was that useful.”

“Better than catching us in that spell—you could have killed all of us with that stunt.”

“But I didn’t,” I’m standing, but my eyes are still only level with his ribs. “And I thought a ranger would be made of sterner stuff. If a little thunder worries you, maybe you should’ve stayed in the summer forest.”

“And if you wanted to blow things up in caves you should’ve stayed in Kränhold!”

“I’m a forest gnome, you knife-eared moron!”

“‘Knife-ears’, really?” He actually sounds disappointed—and it’s _infuriating_.

“Well you like calling me a _midget_.” I have to stop myself from lashing out. _There will be a time_.

“You’re half my height, what am I supposed to call you?”

“You could use her name,” that’s coming from Mel, his voice matter-of-fact. “Also, there’s a ton of stuff in the next room.”

I stand on tiptoes and point at Ath’s chest. “This isn’t over.”

“For now it is.”

Gods help me, I want to blast him through a _wall_.

I turn away, looking into the room the wolves came from. Mel’s right. There’s a lot of stuff in there. Gems. Some sort of enchanted breastplate. A rusty lockbox with a lock still on it. 

Lighting the driftglobe, I set it safely on a high shelf, then climb onto the desk. It’s easier to get at everything this way, _and_ it makes me a few inches taller than Ath. There are a lot of gems here. A Dwarf could better tell what they are, but I think the blue ones are lapis, and tiger eyes are very distinctive. Something light blue, translucent. It might be sapphire, but I don’t think so. A greenish banded stone—like onyx or agate. They’re all valuable, and light.

The lockbox is rusty, but seems fairly sturdy. I try picking it up, but it must be heavier than me. I point out the lock, and then look to the others. Maybe Ath actually has some useful talents—but no, he just shakes his head. Mel steps back and gives me a little thumbs up with a crooked grin.

And I don’t think there’s anything left of that lock. There’s also a nice lock-shaped dent in the side of the lockbox. It still opens easily enough. And now I know why it weighs so much—there can’t be less than a thousand copper pieces in there. More, probably. The thing is about half full of them. And on top of all those coins are two potions, and six, no seven arrows. I’m not familiar with the magic on them, but the arrows are definitely enchanted.

The potions are easier. The blue potion is water-breathing. I unplug the stopper and give it a sniff to be sure, but there’s precious else it can be. It goes in my pack before anyone can object. Mel takes the red potion, sniffing it, squinting, then carefully placing a drop on his tongue.

“Fire breathing,” he’s smiling again, smoke coming from his nostrils. “And yes, I knew that _before_ I tasted it.”

“What about the breastplate?”

“It’s mithril.”

“It’s a pity wizards can’t wear armour.”

“And it’s too big for you, Inyri.”

“And it’s too heavy for me,” Ath is just putting the arrows we found in his quiver, he’s holding them rather gingerly as well. I’m starting to wonder how much he actually trusts magic. Neither Mel or I bother telling him about the actual properties of mithril. I think we’ve both come to the same conclusion about Ath and magic items. For now.

We take our time, dividing everything else between the three of us. Most of the coppers, and the mithril plate are staying behind. We’ll collect them on our way back. It’s also possible I could just use my unseen servant to carry most of it, in a pinch. And thinking of said servant, it’s still there, waiting patiently, completely unbothered by our skirmish with the wolves. There are times I dream of conjuring something much more powerful, but that is not the way of the water lizard. A quiet slumber, and an unstoppable wrath. I know that from my dreams also, but in my waking studies I seldom find further details of the places I see, or the beings that worshipped the water lizard.

My mind returns to the moment, and I send my servant towards the eastern hall, opening the ramshackle gate there with surprisingly little sound. Which makes the jangling, ringing bells on the net trap seem all the louder when it pins my servant to the floor. It continues to drag itself down the corridor, and I’m pretty sure we’ve lost the element of surprise—unless…

Everyone moves quietly in the darkness, flanking the entrance to the corridor, or hiding next to a pile of rubble. Two goblins round the corner at the end of the corridor, cackling in Goblin, one pointing at the net moving, the other slapping him. The first one draws his sword and stabs the net, somehow missing my servant. He slaps the other goblin, who swings a hammer overhead and crushes my servant. They hiss and cackle, then the one with the club yelps in fright as an arrow nicks his ear.

I step out briefly, letting the weave flow through me as I cast Eldritch blast with both hands. Light dances and crackles around the goblins as they stumble away from the attack, before being bathed in glowing embers as Mel starts casting behind me. An arrow sails out of the darkness and one of the goblins falls to the ground, dead. The other freezes in place. Literally. Mel is proving quite useful as another magic adept.

Another goblin just peeked around the corner, then started running the other way. _He has to be summoning help_.

Dagger in hand, I knock a chunk of ice from the frozen goblin, using it to cast armour of Agathys on myself. I have to wonder why I’m leading the other two. Well, I know why I’m leading Mel, but Ath? I edge around the corner as an arrow thunks into my frosted armour. I flick my fingers towards the goblin archer, knocking him off balance with another eldritch blast. There’s something else a lot bigger—and closer—that I somehow failed to see.

That something is also on fire, thanks to Mel. It’s a bugbear. And it’s charging us. I duck as Mel starts mumbling in a wizard’s cant, his hands moving swiftly in the darkness. The bugbear stumbles, stops, and starts to fumble around. _Did he blind it?_ I don’t have time to consider it, as a pair of goblins rushes past the bugbear, one swinging for Ath and connecting quite solidly. The other swings for me, her sword carving a line down my breastplate. She looks on in horror as frost creeps back up her sword, slowly freezing her solid as she drops the weapon with a muffled clang.

I’ve got some breathing room, and if Mel did blind the bugbear, then I can make it so much worse for the monster. I whisper in shadowspeech, making my voice carry to it. The bugbear recoils in pain, but doesn’t run. _Is its mind is _too_ simple for this spell?_ I can see it starting to rush again, and as I flick my fingers to blast it, something shoves me off-balance. 

Ath.

His sword is stuck in a timber post next to me.

Something slams against the floor of the mine, and dust falls from the roof. Behind me, Mel is almost falling over, the corner of his robe stuck under the bugbear’s club. I hear the twang of a bowstring in my ear, and there’s a much heavier thud, with more dust falling from between the roofing timbers. There’s an arrow stuck in the back of the bugbear’s skull. Very deeply.

I can see faint rings when I glance behind me, Mel’s hands glowing with elemental powers. A goblin to the left is set on fire, running away in a panic. A goblin to her right is frozen solid. There are still more goblins, and another one charges me, his spearhead breaking against my armour of Agathys. Lines of frost shoot down the haft of the spear, freezing the goblin solid with a look of utter shock on his face. But my armour can’t take many more hits like that.

A volley of arrows sail around me, barely missing the mark. I reply with a snap of my fingers and crackling force shoots back the other way, seeking a target. But the hobgoblin archers appear to have found cover. Ath moves up behind me, and I see a flash of silver from the far end of the corridor. A javelin slams into him, throwing him back. Mel responds with a volley of magic missiles, all slamming into the hobgoblin captain that threw the javelin.

The hobgoblins fire from behind cover, but can’t seem to hit me or Mel. My thunderclap knocks chips of stone from the piles of rubble they’re hiding behind, but does little else. Their captain picks up another javelin and takes a quick step, throwing it full force. I can hear it as it impales Ath. I can hear it as he falls to the ground with a quiet thud.

I start moving, and in front of me the hobgoblin archers burst into flame, screaming and panicking. I’m running up the rubble pile, a short jump, and all of my hatred poured into a single attack. I don’t flick my fingers. Not this time. I shape the weave around my fist. The force of the blast knocks me back—but the captain is so fast. His scimitar shatters my icy armour, and the force of the blow knocks me back.

But my shattering armour turned into shards of ice, one of them embedded in the captain’s eye, others peppering his arms and torso. He’s staggering slightly, still not dead, and while I’m about to draw my dagger I hear the whistle of an arrow and a wet thunk. The hobgoblin captain keels over backwards. I’m fairly certain he’s not getting up again. Ever.

When I look back, I can see Ath, propped up against the wall, just lowering his bow.

Well, I guess the ranger might be good for something after all.


	3. Venturing Below

We left the mine the same way we’d come in. It was clear now that the farmsteaders had been taken by goblins, deep into the mine, beyond where we were sure we could easily make it back out. And that stupid Elf… all he gets for being stuck with a javelin like that is a neat little scar. We camped out, some distance from the mine entrance—just in case something else came out during the night—and kept our fire low.

My dreams, that first night after the battle of the mines. Not nightmares, but… visions. Knowledge. Movements, fragments of shadowspeech. New pages in the tome that was a gift from the water lizard itself. A streak of continuous lightning—a Witch Bolt. And a quick ritual for stepping just slightly sideways out of the world, not to travel, but for protection. A ritual to very slightly skew reality itself to make those that would harm me miss more often. Armour composed of nothing more than shadow made somehow solid.

I assumed that both Ath and Mel would be undergoing similar transformations, but if anything, Ath just looked concerned, focusing on his hands with a strange intensity. Mel was just furiously scribbling in his spellbook every waking moment, or using another, smaller notebook to jot notes about the potions in his pack, and the treasures we’d found so far. I gave him the scroll of Thunderwave—far better that he copy it into his spellbook than one of us waste it.

Two days after we left the mine we returned to Bourchand’s gate, on the east of Hawke’s Canal. The time we spent in the forests had been good for me. Back to my roots, remembering a misspent youth among the roots and branches in Walerüt. Nothing like this place with its walls and the giant river cutting it in half. But for a long time I’ve felt drawn here—maybe not to this city, but certainly to this island. To place that’s maybe no more than a step away to a being like the water lizard. Far harder for a mortal to access.

Outside the gate it was clear we weren’t the only ones returning with grim news. Not everyone had returned, either. We were virtually accosted by a half-orc trying to get in, then I recognised the cut of his uniform. So did the others. A guard captain. Asking lots of questions. Most of them irrelevant.

“What about symbols, uniforms?”

Thinking back, some of the goblins did look like they’d been branded. Or maybe it was stamped into their armour. I held out my hand and used a minor illusion to recreate the symbol as best as I could recall. “All of them, something like that, I think.”

The captain went pale—and for a half-orc, that’s no easy task. There was a lot of swearing, in Orcish. Well, I was pretty sure it was swearing, short words, lots of guttural consonants. He turned back to us.

“A legion must be massing somewhere nearby. We need to know where, and how many.” The captain looked at us—at me. “You’ve all seen them, right?”

I just nodded. He was going to ask us for something, I just knew it.

“At first light, I want you to go back, find out all you can. I will send Jorith to help you.”

Jorith, it turns out, was a Dragonborn of exceptional size. Copper-gold, scarred, and obviously a veteran of many conflicts. I could see it just in the way he moved. Just his presence was menacing. Not deliberately, I don’t think, but I’ll admit to not being fond of near seven foot lizards that can breathe fire at the best of times. Tonight was not a good night for that—not to mention the captain here was sending us on another mission without fulfilling the city’s earlier contract.

“We found out what you wanted to know about those farmsteaders,” I was trying to look the captain in the eye. “If there’s a legion involved, I’m not going back for nothing.”

“I’ll double whatever the reward was.”

I gave him my best withering look. He just blinked. “There are certain tomes in the university in Cleargate quarter, I was promised access. I cannot see how you’d double that.”

“Maybe not—but I can make sure your research is uninterrupted, for as long as you need. Whatever those tomes might be.”

I wasn’t sure he knew what he was actually allowing me to do. Or even if he could. But it would certainly help—and I could easily hold him to his word. “Done.”

“And if you can, warlock, bring back something solid with the legion’s symbol on it. Someone here may be able to tell us more.”

“Fine—are we free now?”

“Not yet, you should take these,” and he handed each of us a small scroll and seal. “A writ of passage. You may move freely through the city, and access the shops at any time until dawn in order to better prepare.”

Mel looked at the scroll, then at me. “If it’s really this bad, the city will need all the help it can get. I can scribe some simple spell scrolls for the guards, and if I start now… oh, and the apothecary, there’s some alchemy that must be tried.”

I left Mel and Ath behind. Making a spell scroll was not a bad idea. The ink would cost a little, but we had plenty of gems and small treasures from the mines. I pocketed only a few, enough to cover the inks and material components to be infused into a few scrolls. But if we were to leave at first light—and if I wanted any sleep at all—the best I could do was a cantrip.

So in my little apartment, at a desk still too large for me, I set everything out to scribe a scroll of Eldritch Blast. Something that might help in a pinch. Ath would soon have magic of his own. Jorith… a veteran guard. He might make better use of it. Whatever we faced wouldn’t be expecting spell scrolls on him either. The quill was steady in my right hand, my left hand drawing a tiny fraction of the weave from my own tome towards the scroll, binding it with the ink, black, with crushed quartz and the tiniest flakes of fine gold. The script shimmered beyond the flickering candlelight, and with the cantrip fixed in my mind I drew out the somatic component in meticulous detail.

It was, perhaps, four hours before dawn by the time I finished. A short nap, but it would be easy enough to rest on the road. Part of me still wondered why the water lizard had drawn me here, to this spot, to this rather offensively rustic city astride a river. My patron was never big on communication. After I found the first runes and deciphered them, looking everywhere for more information about the ruins in that place, the tome had just appeared. The pages changed sometimes, and on the voyage across the narrow sea to get here, the book had seemed to almost jump away from any drip of salt water.

That was the first time the water lizard itself appeared in my dreams, basking on a rock near a spring of pure, fresh water. Its skin was black, or grey, or faded—as if the colour wasn’t quite there. The only colour was a single chartreuse eye, pupil narrowed to a slit, regarding me with indolent curiosity. The whole scene was muted, as if the colour had been taken from it. The water itself was crystal clear, just the faintest hint of blue. That, and the water lizard’s eye had been the only colour.

I woke before dawn, recalling the same dream. But this time both of the water lizard’s eyes had held colour. And the dewlap beneath its chin had been a very dull orange or yellow, contrasting with something. Something not yet there. I was on the right path. That was enough to know.

I met Ath outside the city gates, with the captain, and Jorith. Mel was not with us. Instead we received a note in fine, spidery penmanship that he was staying behind to create scrolls for the defence of the city. So it was with a party of just three we set off, back to the mines, to learn more about the massing legion. Ath was not at all knowledgeable about goblin legions, listening carefully Jorith’s speech about slave-taking and military preparations. I knew we’d be lucky to find those farmsteaders alive—hobgoblin slavers working for a legion are just as likely to work their slaves to death.

We made good time through the forest, and as we broke for lunch, I passed my scroll to Jorith, hoping Ath would be distracted enough by his food. He wasn’t, but oddly, didn’t ask anything of the scroll, or why I’d given it to our Dragonborn either. My suspicions about his mistrust of magic only grew. A simple lunch, trail rations and some water while we rested, and then on with the journey.

Mid-way through the afternoon we came to a clearing—blackened, twisted trees. Not burnt, or blasted, but warped by magic in some way. Thick webs hung between the branches of the trees. From some of those branches hung large cocoons of webbing, and in some of those cocoons—slashed or torn open—was a desiccated corpse. I shuddered. Forest spiders I have no issue with. The warped and twisted things that make these webs? A spider the size of a horse. I fought them once, in the past, to protect my temple.

We didn’t stay, skirting around the edge of the clearing, finding a way back to the farmstead road. We skirted the farmstead itself, not due to any danger, but due to the smell. Rotting corpses are not conducive to either a good dinner or a good night’s sleep. Speaking of, when it came to dinner, Jorith had surprisingly refined manners for a guard, and a Dragonborn at that. We were still another day from the mine, according to Ath. That seemed accurate enough.

* * *

The bodies in the mine were gone, and that set all of us slightly on edge. It meant someone else had come through, or possibly that the goblins had tried to recover their dead. But it was the final chamber—the one we had not explored fully during our previous visit—that we found the biggest clue. In the pit there was a platform, made of planking and lashed together with some care. The mechanism to raise and lower it was barely more than a rope on a pulley. Pointing somewhere below us, past the platform itself, Jorith identified a walkway.

I could hear water lapping below us, but strangely distant. I heard steps behind me, and I turned in time to see Ath flinging his fool self past the platform, aiming for the walkway. We heard him cursing all the way down, and then an almighty splash. While I waited to hear something else from Ath—half hoping that maybe he’d wound up in another plane—I handed the driftglobe to Jorith, asking him if he could figure out how to make it hover.

As Jorith patiently tried every Draconic word for ‘fly’, ‘hover’, ‘float’ and anything similar, I sat and waited. Sure enough, over the lapping water I heard the complaints of our Elf ranger. Jorith handed the driftglobe back to me with a shrug—and I began to entertain the possibility that maybe _this_ one was somehow damaged. Unlike Ath, who aside from being wet, seemed to be perfectly fine. And aside from being a good hundred feet below us. I figured some light would help.

The daylight from the driftglobe illuminated the entire cavern, platform, walkway, tunnels, and the ocean below. A lot of ocean. A piece of scripture floated through my mind, about how the world floats upon a sea in the Underdark. I just hadn’t expected it to be quite so literal. It also helped to neatly explain why the walkway was bolted—surprisingly well—to the roof of the caverns. Looking to the distance and continuing to ignore Ath I couldn’t see to the end of the tunnel, even with the daylight from the driftglobe. Whatever this place was, it was huge.

Jorith was already rummaging through his backpack, taking out sections of tree, cooking utensils, an immovable rod, and what looked like a small bush. Two branches and the bush—which was actually a thatch weave—slotted together into a broom. I could sense a reasonably powerful enchantment on the broom itself. It had to be. He spoke a word in Draconic, and the broom of flying descended slowly towards Ath.

I won’t got into detail about how I attempted to remotely cast Spider Climb for Ath, but I know he’ll be giving me hell for it for some time—until I point out just how stupid he was to need me to actually try that in the first place. I’m sure _that_ will work.

Jorith and I used the platform, stepping onto the walkway after stuffing the still glowing driftglobe into my pack. The broom was slowly bringing Ath both up to our level, and along the path behind us. Even with the driftglobe swaddled it was hard to tell if what we were seeing in the distance were some else’s lights, or just a reflection of our own. What wasn’t hard to were the rails and winches and pulleys running alongside the walkway we were on. It had to be some kind of transport system, but for what? Not being a tinker, I couldn’t hazard what sort of vehicle it might be used by either.

We’d been walking for at least an hour—I knew that by the fact the driftglobe faded into darkness. Up ahead there were definitely lights. Lights and sound. A muffled clanging, like a smith’s hammer, or possibly the beating of war drums. Shadows flitted across the walkway, and it seemed like there was a lot of movement ahead. Weaving a minor illusion around us, it would now look like a trio of goblins was on patrol if anyone saw us.

The ramshackle walkway ended quite suddenly up ahead. It didn’t stop, instead, it was replaced with a well made wooden terrace, still suspended from the cavern roof, but of much higher quality than the walkway we had previously been using. A few hundred yards later and the terrace changed, opening into a stone-cut bulwark. It looked like Dwarven work, the angular, geometric decorations being a good sign. It was worn, but not as much as I would have expected.

Below us was an almighty shelf of rock, several walkways branching from it, and at least two sets of rails following them—one alongside our walkway, and another off to the right. I couldn’t be sure what direction it actually was, and it turned sharply before disappearing anyway. I looked down at the rocky shelf once more. It seemed to be some kind of dock, with an exceptionally large hobgoblin in the centre barking orders at the collected goblins and various human slaves.

Ath pointed to a collection of barrels and crates. Several of them had the same markings as some of the farmstead’s buildings. The rail next to us groaned, and we flattened ourselves against the wall. A slight motion of my hands cast another minor illusion, this time of the wall itself. A hanging cart passed us, stopping at the docks to unload more slaves and a multitude of barrels and crates. Supplies. A massive stockpile of supplies, judging by the height of the stacks at the back of the docks.

The danger past, Ath pointed to a flickering light in the distance, a campfire of some kind. Two shadows, small. Goblins standing watch. There was a way, very easy for me. A drop of tar, and a spider. Tar between the middle fingertips. A bit of crunch from the spider. The fine stonework of the walkway extended up to the roof of the cavern, making it seem as if the walkway had been carved from a solid block or spine hanging down towards the waters below. The lapping of those waves—and the general cacophony from the docks covered any sound my ascent was making.

Below me, craning my neck back, I could see Ath and Jorith on the broom of flying. It wasn’t very fast, but they didn’t have to go up as well. They would wait for my signal, me being the slowest to get in position for this ambush. A good fifteen minutes to traverse the roof of the cavern—upside down—and then climb partway down the wall. I bent over, my body hiding the light from all but my companions, a double flicker of green fire by combining druidcraft and thaumaturgy.

I focused my mind against the goblin beneath me, a soundless whisper in shadowspeech floating to him. He dropped without a sound. The goblin next to him stepped back, utterly terrified. An arrow whistled through the air, sticking into his arm. He turned, about to ring the alarm. Then Jorith’s throwing axe embedded itself in his chest, felling the goblin over the fire.

As the other two recovered their ammunition, I walked down the wall and stepped onto the landing there. Ath said nothing—but his face told me everything. Jorith smiled, fangs bared. Past the landing there was a set of stairs, winding a tight spiral upwards. Plenty of noise seemed to echo down them. I looked again. The stairs really were quite crude, just roughly hewn from the rock. Nothing like the walkway, or even the landing we had alighted upon.

Jorith led the way up the stairs, followed by Ath, then me. I know, I know, but my legs are short, and those two were basically sprinting up the stairs.

“Company!” Jorith hissed at us.

Ath surged past him, already nocking an arrow. Then Jorith sprang into action, like nothing I’ve ever seen. A flurry of blows sliced the arm off a goblin warrior before Jorith reversed his grip and impaled the goblin. He turned, pivoting on one foot, his sword rising in a tremendous vertical slash. The hobgoblin in front of him barely managed to deflect the attack, but couldn’t escape the back-handed strike with the reverse edge. The hobgoblin collapsed, headless. And in all that time Ath had loosed only a single arrow, wounding the nearer of a pair of goblin archers.

Another arrow made sure he couldn’t run for help. The last goblin archer was drawing a bead on Jorith. It was instinctive. I snapped my fingers and threw my arm out towards the goblin. The crackle of my magic was muffled by the noise below, but not so much the last goblin—hiding in the stairwell ahead of us—couldn’t hear it. Ath loosed another arrow, and the goblin fell down a single flight of stairs.

Only now could I actually look over the crenellations on the wall. The cavern below was huge. Gargantuan. In the distance there was a massive underground citadel, carved from the rock, and bristling with turrets, loopholes, firing slits, and all manner of traps, I was sure. A massive drawbridge—currently raised—connected the citadel to the main space of the cavern below us.

And in that space… gods. Thousands of goblins. Maybe tens of thousands. Not just goblins either. Hobgoblins, bugbears, wolves, wargs, and thousands of slaves. Something else caught my eye. The glint of polished metal, and a small pile of gold. The beards gave it away. _What are Duergar doing here? _They seemed more dour than normal, and I saw that they weren't helping the legion. In fact, several hobgoblins seemed to be trying to drive them to some kind of work, using whips, chains, and excessive force. Even if the Duergar were captives, that still left… tens of thousands of goblins.

I turned to Jorith, whose golden scales had gone quite pale. “We’re going to need an army.”

He fixed me with an even stare. “Hawke’s Canal does not _have_ an army.”

_…crap_.

Then Ath managed to point out something even more worrying. Jorith and I had been worrying about the legion below us, and the citadel supplying them. To the right, partially hidden by the gloom, was a very large gatehouse. Tall, rather than wide. The stairs inside were still at least twenty feet wide, but the implication was that they reached the surface. Which was why there was a squad of bored looking bugbears standing guard in front of the gatehouse.

We wouldn’t be able to get out through the legion’s mustering ground. Not alive, anyway. The only way was to go back the way we’d come, through the docks, and along that ramshackle walkway. At the bottom of the stairs we rested, gathering our thoughts, trying to make plans that we knew wouldn’t be useful. Anything to keep our minds off the fact that less than five hundred yards away there was an entire hobgoblin legion massing—and we were in their way.

On the docks it seemed busier too, lots of goblins shoving each other around, and plenty of raised hands. Shouting, barely audible over the general din. Some kind of sale. And up our own stairs we heard shouts of alarm, and the clattering of armoured boots. It was time to go. Jorith assembled his broom of flying once more, and a still uneasy Ath climbed on behind him. I got to eat another spider.

We made it to the walkway without incident. Almost. Jorith landed hard from his broom, nearly knocking Ath onto the docks below. Arrows and crossbow bolts chipped the stonework around us, and other goblins were already climbing the pillars or running up hidden stairs. I made it as far as the wooden terrace before my stamina began to flag. The goblins were still chasing us. A crossbow bolt landed dangerously close. That was enough motivation to keep going, winded though I was.

The ramshackle walkway beckoned, and as I looked at the bolts driven into the roof of the cavern I had an idea. Ath looked back just in time to follow my gaze, and he went pale as he put on a sudden burst of speed. Jorith was close behind. I was over the first section. Arrows zinged off one of the struts. Past the second section. I would need just a handful of seconds. Fumbling in my component pouch I found the ship of stone. Mica. I threw it skyward, hands wide, already concentrating on the section of the walkway between me and the goblins chasing us.

My hands slammed together. Chips of rock rained from the roof of the cave. The walkway itself creaked and groaned, tearing free with a shriek of tortured metal. Then another. And another. I ran. In all three sections had fallen—far enough that the gap couldn’t be jumped without magical aid, or the ability to fly. I could hear several loud splashes far below, and the screaming of a number of goblins that hadn’t been able to stop in time.

The rail cart started moving, obviously meant to harry us all the way to the platform into the mines. The rail cart stopped, hanging there, swaying slightly. The rail itself was bent out of shape, hit by some shrapnel from the collapsing walkway. A lucky break.

* * *

It felt like days, walking back along that ramshackle walkway. It was hours, at least. A long way to travel after such an intense chase. We had more information. Jorith had taken a piece of armour from one of the goblins we had killed on the landing. Said piece of armour had the legion’s sigil on it. The scholars and historians in town could then do something with that information.

“Jorith, where did the other raids come from?” It was Ath asking the question.

“They seemed to strike from the east.”

“The mountains?” Now it sounded like Ath was merely seeking confirmation.

“Quite possibly. The Fangs are about a day’s walk from here.”

“The gatehouse, I think it’s in the mountains.” I resisted the urge to congratulate him. It seemed like our ranger was at last proving useful with his skills. and about time.

“And I know where we can find army,” the others stared at me. “Okay, so they might be occupied with the dragons on the east coast, but they do _have_ an army.”

Jorith was staring at me. “How do you know this?”

“Because before I wound up in Hawke’s Canal, I was looking for a place to work and stay on this island. I didn’t fancy being an_ hors d’oeurve_ for a hungry dragon.”

I said nothing about the vision that had brought me here. The hidden spring that the Water Lizard wished for me to find, or possibly cleanse.

We didn’t wait. We made haste back to Hawke’s Canal, intending to get whoever was in charge to send a fast clipper around the island to the fortress city. Assuming Hawke’s Canal had any such boats left.


End file.
